


An Alba for Baker Street

by orchid314



Series: Four Vignettes [4]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Internalized Homophobia, Intimate Confessions, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-22
Updated: 2018-04-22
Packaged: 2019-04-22 12:05:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14308269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orchid314/pseuds/orchid314
Summary: A conversation by firelight in the hours before dawn.





	An Alba for Baker Street

**Author's Note:**

> Infinite thanks to rachelindeed for her perceptive beta-reading.

"We must never–"

"Shh, no words."

They lay in Holmes's bed, the fire burning low in the deepest hour of the autumn night. Holmes looked down, his hip revealed among the careless sheets. He had never seen his skin gleam in that manner before, the firelight playing over it like cloud shadow drifting over water.

"John–" Dare he use that thrilling name? His heart checked itself at his audacity.

He felt Watson smile beside him, turned on his stomach, his face pressed into his pillow.

"Sleep a little longer yet. I'll wait for first light to come, and then you can make your way to your room."

"Mrs Hudson won't serve breakfast until at least nine o'clock."

"Yes, but you know very well that she often bustles her way in here before then to put things in order. Half the time I don't mark when she's arrived, but she's a canny one. She'll notice the smallest change. John, we can't allow that."

"Well, then you must promise me at least that you'll lie down again for a while. Let's not waste this moment. Please, I beg of you."

Holmes longed to sort his thoughts but they circled endlessly, caught in a ring of bright air.

"You know–" he began. "If you should wish to seek other lodgings, I'll understand entirely..." (To say "Never leave me" was impossible, so this substitute would have to do.)

Watson raised his head, the incomprehension visible on his face even in the low dark shadows of the room.

"My dearest man, how would you ever suppose that I could?" He lifted himself up to press an ardent kiss to Holmes's lips. Then he pulled him down so that they were facing each other across their pillows.

"Do you not see that we have always been friends before anything else? I can't–I can't imagine life–. After you went away–. No, I can't imagine that again.

"Do you know how long ago it was? When I fell in love with you?" Watson asked. Shivers rattled through Holmes's veins.

Watson laughed. "Do you recall, no, I'm sure you don't. On the journey back to London from wrapping up the case of that desperate man and his stepdaughter and the snake? You were deducing something inside your mind, completely caught up in it. And then you solved it–I don't remember what it was now. But it was as if you had emerged from water, from a swim in a lake, and you opened your eyes and gave me a smile. Such a smile. I was certain my heart would cease to beat then and there.

"Of course you didn't notice and I was glad of it. If you had found me out then, I'm not sure what I would have done, Sherlock. Died of mortification, most likely."

There it was again. His Christian name cast aloft into the air like that, so carefree. John's giddiness was dangerous.

Holmes took a great leap (greater than any he was supposed to have made at the Reichenbach Falls), and lifted Watson's hand to his lips, lightly kissing the nail of each finger in succession.

Watson burrowed closer, pulling aside the bedclothes, unabashedly seeking his touch. He cast a leg over Holmes's leg, trapping it there, pressing his body close against Holmes's own. Holmes could feel the hair of Watson's chest against his torso, his private regions against his thigh, and he found himself luxuriating unexpectedly in the sensation. He felt like a guest in his own life, or as if he had stumbled into a neighbouring country where this was customary. He wondered how long it would be until Watson became repulsed by it.

"You–Was it acceptable–John?" (Had he uttered the question aloud?)

"Hmm?..." his companion replied, drowsy now.

During their moment of congress, he had lost all sense of himself. But in the quiet that followed, as Watson breathed heavily next to him, he had recognised what he had glimpsed before but not fully understood. There were further reaches, mysterious and uncertain, to another person (or at least to this particular one) that he would never fathom. Pieces of this man lay beyond his grasp, despite the proximity of their bodies. Here was no case to be investigated, with its conundrums that surrendered as wax before sun to his keen perception. There was an implacable dread to the idea.

"Your mind, it's whirring again. I can almost hear it. Come back to me, Sherlock. Don't go so far away."

At that, Holmes slipped his arm under Watson's neck and drew him close. They lay thus for an indeterminate time, Holmes caressing Watson's shoulder wound with long, slow movements.

"I suffered a thousand torments thinking on you," he admitted.

"Did you?" Watson turned to look him in the eyes, exploring back and forth. He murmured,

_"Ask for those kings whom thou saw'st yesterday,  
And thou shalt hear, All here in one bed lay."_

Holmes laughed. "Do you always quote love poetry to the poor souls who develop a tendresse for you?"

"Only to those who have captured my heart," Watson said. He continued, extravagant in his passion, "You are my king, you command me, you undo me."

"Do I?" Holmes echoed. The thought occurred to him that just possibly he had been netted by this thing called love, which all the world sought so fervently but which he had held in abeyance until now. Although he might be willing to consider negotiating terms with it, if it meant John Watson would continue to say such things to him.

The embers of the fire turned in on themselves, as if they knew that dawn was not far away. He and Watson must return to prosaic matters tomorrow, but tonight the cases and their stories would wait, suspended. For now they had no need of words.

**Author's Note:**

> The alba was a poetic form used by the troubadours to, according to [Wikipedia](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Alba_\(poetry\)), "describe the longing of lovers who, having passed a night together, must separate for fear of being discovered." I liked the fact that "alba" means "dawn" in Spanish, and could signify the beginning of a romantic relationship between Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. But I also like how it gives an opportunity to show a sense of danger of being discovered. As enlightened as Holmes and Watson might have been about same-sex romantic attraction (and I'm not quite sure how comfortable each of them was with it), I believe they would have fully internalized the necessity of adapting to the external structures of the homophobia of their day and age. 
> 
> The quote is from John Donne's love poem ["The Sun Rising.”](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/44129/the-sun-rising)


End file.
